Pack Your Bags, Romanoff
by Sheytune
Summary: The story of Natasha's friendship with the Barton family
1. Chapter 1

She's not an idiot.

She's heard the rumors, noticed the stares, read the results of that science nerd's experiment that proved that gossip that the widow and Hawkeye were alone in a room increased foot traffic in the hall by 23%.

Everyone thinks they're sleeping together.

They're not. She can count her true friends on one hand and still have four fingers left over. She's not risking that friendship for sex. Lovers are easy to find. Friends are not.

She assumes he dates, but she doesn't ask and he doesn't say. It really doesn't matter.

At least it doesn't matter until they're in the middle of nowhere, 75 clicks from the closest extraction point, and he's out of his mind with fever, the unfortunate side effect of a minor cut from what has turned out to be a very dirty blade.

Who the hell is Laura?

She finds a doctor and persuades him she's more dangerous than the militants who control the area. The antibiotics work, and two days later, she's driving a stolen jeep up a rutted, winding goat trail while he fights to stay upright.

"Is Laura your girlfriend?", she asks as the jeep sends a shower of gravel careening off the edge of a cliff.

He laughs. "No." There's silence for a moment, then he asks, "I was really out of it, huh?"

"I just thought you liked playing sleeping beauty in the middle of the mission."

It's not really an answer, and they begin their descent in silence. They're almost at the extraction point when he says, "Laura's my wife."

"Oh." It hurts more than a punch, knowing that her friend has kept such an enormous secret.

"We have two kids", he continues. "There are only three people at S.H.I.E.L.D. who know they exist, and two of them are in this car."

It's not an apology – there's nothing to apologize for – but somehow, that makes it a little better.

Three days later, he knocks on her door. "Pack a bag, Romanoff."

They take an indirect route to a remote farmhouse. Barton pulls the car over just before he turns in the drive. He stares straight ahead and says, "This time could have been it."

"It wasn't."

"The next time could be." He turns to face her. "If it is, promise me you'll watch out for them."

She can't refuse.

He puts the car in gear and turns down the drive.

Laura lights up when she sees him, and Barton clings to her while two over-excited children tug at his pants. He lets his wife go and swings the children up in the air in turn, dispensing hugs and examining scrapes and crayon drawings.

She sits back, watching. She never would have pictured him living this kind of life, but it suits him. He looks years younger, relaxed and happy. Finally, he sets his young daughter down and says, "Laura, this is Natasha."

She's taken aback when Laura hugs her, too, and then she's walking up the stairs to a cheery room filled with mismatched furniture and being urged to make herself at home.

She spends the next few days feeling like a tourist in a foreign land. The entire family goes fishing, and she goes along. They don't catch much, but the kids run along the shore and catch frogs, laughing until they collapse in mirthful heaps on the bank. Laura insists that the two of them need a spa day, and Barton promises the kids a target-shooting contest while he pretends not to see her pleading look.

The spa's actually not bad, and she finds that she likes Laura. Laura is competent and warm and completely unthreatened by her.

That's not true of many people.

When she leaves, Laura hugs her, and the youngest child gives her a hug and a crumpled drawing. She's not sure what it's supposed to be, but she's oddly touched by the gesture.

..…

" _Shit!"_

They're in an alley LA, tracking some suspected terrorist the feds lost at LAX. It's 3 AM, and the temperature has finally dropped to a bearable level. She looks around for the threat, but there's nothing.

"What?"

She'd really like a fight right about now, and her voice reflects her annoyance.

"It's my kid's birthday."

She's not immediately sure why he's telling her that, and it takes her a second to realize he has somewhere to be.

She looks at the bar they suspect their target is hanging out in, opens her shirt another inch, and checks the knife in her boot. "Let's go get him."

She offers to take care of the paperwork so he can get home, but he says it can wait and tells her to pack her bags. By 7, they're on a plane, and at 10:30 they're in a rental car. At 10:35 she remembers that gifts are part of a traditional birthday celebration, and they find a toy store.

She's not sure what a five year old girl likes, so she goes down the aisle marked "For Girls" and is appalled to find dolls and an occasional craft kit, most of them in bubble-gum pink boxes. She's about to corner a clerk to ask why he thinks these are appropriate toys for girls when Clint grabs her shoulders and steers her around the corner to a more appealing display. There are guns that shoot little pieces of foam, and orange and green water pistols, and even a bow that shoots foam arrows. In defiance of the "For Boys" label, she buys one of each.

They pull into the drive just after noon, and his daughter leaps into his arms.

It's worth every bruise.

..…

It's a concussion – a mild one, but still enough to knock her out of commission for a couple of weeks. She doesn't argue. Frankly, just sitting up for more than a couple of minutes is enough to make her feel like she needs a nap. She lies on her couch and happily focuses on nothing.

She's sure she locked the door, but he walks in without knocking.

"Go away, Barton."

He pulls a duffel bag off the shelf and tosses it in her lap. "Pack your bags, Romanoff. I'm off for two weeks, and if I leave you here, you'll probably start climbing the walls. You're coming with me."

She's too fuzzy and tired to argue.

She spends the first week sitting on the porch, not doing much of anything. Sometimes Laura sits with her, watching the kids run and shriek across the lawn. Sometimes one of the kids sits with her, cuddling in against her side and asking her questions she's not quite sure how to answer. In the evenings, Clint joins her, fussing with his arrows and talking about nothing.

She wakes up on day 8 feeling better. For the first time, she begins to believe she will recover. In celebration, she takes part in what is apparently the traditional Barton family water-balloon fight, girls against boys. Her team wins – even a crack shot can't resist a plea of "Daddy, help!"

She gloats the rest of the day.

The next week passes in a blur, and soon she is hugging Laura and the kids and promising to return soon. She'll miss them. She's pretty sure they'll miss her, too.

..…

They meet at Heathrow. While he was at home, she was in Russia, working on a side project of her own. It's the beginning of December, and tinny Christmas carols are playing in the background. She's been sitting there long enough to tune them out.

Two weeks later, they're back at the airport, on the way home. She's off to headquarters; he's on his way home for the holidays.

His flight is called, and he picks up his bag and nods at hers. "Grab your bag, Romanoff."

She frowns at him. "My flight's not for another hour, Barton."

He shakes his head and picks up her carry on. "You're coming home with me. I cleared it with HQ. You're off until January 2."

"But …"

He starts walking away with her bag, calling over his shoulder. "Move it! I promised the kids I'd bring Auntie Nat home for Christmas."

She follows.

She's never really celebrated Christmas, but she enjoys the lights, laughter, and food. The box of gifts she routed through three dummy addresses beat them to the farmhouse, and she enjoys watching the kids rip through the colourful wrapping paper. To her surprise, there are two gifts under the tree with her name on them. One of them contains pictures from the kids. She can't take them with her, of course, but she knows just where she'll hang them in the guest room. The other gift – the one from Clint and Laura – contains a delicate silver necklace with an arrow pendant. Laura smiles. "We wanted you to have something to remind you of your family."

Immeasurably touched, she removes it from its package and clasps it around her neck. This one she can take with her when she leaves.

Two days after Christmas, Laura announces she's going on a date with her husband and Auntie Nat is babysitting. When they get home, the house is quiet – too quiet. They hang their coats in the closet and call "Kids? Nat?"

There's no response. Clint leads the way into the living room, which means he's the one who's knocked to the ground when his daughter drops from her perch near the ceiling.

His son lets go as well, and barrels into the pile of bodies on the carpet. In the corner, Natasha laughs so hard she has to sit down.

Clint picks himself up. He sends the kids off to brush their teeth and follows them down the hall, limping slightly. Laura grins at Natasha. "That worked well."

Natasha shrugs. "They're fast learners."

..…

"Laura's pregnant."

They're in a rental car, en route to the airport.

"Congratulations." She's not sure what he's looking for from her, but she's pretty sure that's the expected reply.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "If it's a girl, we're going to name her Natasha."

She stares at him. "Really?"

He shrugs. "Really."

They drive the rest of the way in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

When she arrives, the house is in an uproar. Laura's mother has slipped and broken her arm. She'll be out of surgery soon, and Laura is packing a bag in preparation for spending the night at the hospital.

Natasha waves her off and drops her bag in the room that has become hers. She hasn't made it out to the farm in several months, but she still has a change of clothes in the closet, and a bottle of shampoo on the dresser.

A few hours later, they're in the middle of a game of hide and seek. Natasha looks for ten minutes without seeing a trace of the children, impressed and happy to see that they've been practicing their camouflage techniques. She walks towards the shed, scanning the horizon for any sign of movement, but is distracted when a car pulls up.

The woman who gets out is middle-aged and conservatively dressed, and moves as if she's in pain. She's not a threat. Natasha returns her greeting and the woman peers past her towards the house.

"Is Laura here?"

Natasha shakes her head. "No", she says, a lifetime of watching what she says keeping her from providing any details.

Barton appears around the side of the barn. "Mrs. Schneider", he says, "I see you've met Natasha."

The stranger's eyebrows lift so high it seems they're trying to escape her face. "And who is Natasha?"

"Natasha and I work together." Clint's terse explanation doesn't seem to satisfy the woman's curiosity.

"And where is Laura?", Mrs. Schneider asks.

"Hospital", Clint answers. "Her mother had surgery. She'll be home tomorrow."

The woman looks at Natasha as if she's done something wrong. "How nice of Natasha to stay to help with the kids. Please tell Laura I wish her mother a speedy recovery."

"Will do", Clint replies. As the woman drives away, he throws his arm causally around Natasha's shoulders and leans down to whisper, "How does it feel to be a homewrecker?"

He's not surprised when he finds himself on his back on the gravel drive.

…..

She's always known she'd never have kids. It's not like she'd know what to do with a child, and she's never been the nurturing type.

She turns the page, and Princess Elizabeth dares the dragon to fly around the world. Clint's daughter snuggles close and shouts with her, "Hey, dragon!"

They finish the story, and young arms wrap around her. "'Night, Auntie Nat." Natasha presses a kiss to the child's head.

She's always known she'd never be a mother.

But she's starting to wonder if maybe she could have been a good one.

…

She doesn't love him, not the way Loki meant.

That doesn't mean she wanted to kill him. She would have, if she had to, but she's not sure she ever would have recovered. His death would have haunted her.

She watches him hug his wife for just a little too long and knows that she wouldn't be here if he were dead. She'd have lost this family that she's grown so fond of along with her best friend.

The kids come running in, and he lets go of Laura to toss them in the air as they squeal with joy.

No, she doesn't love him.

Love is for children.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note:** This is so many levels of "not where I thought this was going" that I don't even know what to say. Also, this entire chapter is one story, so be prepared for that.

* * *

It was supposed to be a quick mission. Drink some champagne, flirt with the ambassador, and gain access to the embassy's basement to find the files her informant claims are hidden there. Just another rather boring Thursday night.

Across the room, Barton is chatting with a couple of elderly women, doing a decent job of looking like he's interested in what they're saying. She can hear his murmured "mmmhmm"s and "really?"s through her earpiece. She knows he feels like he's missing a limb without the weapons they didn't even try to get past security.

She weaves her way to the door and smiles at the security guard stationed in the hall as she makes her way to the ladies room. She makes sure she's alone, then kicks off her shoes and stows them underneath the garbage bag in the trash can. She unscrews the air duct in the ceiling and hoists herself into the vent.

"In the duct" she mutters as she clamps the duct back into place and starts the slow crawl through the building. Finally, she reaches the end of the duct and listens for a full minute to make sure she's alone. She opens the access panel and drops to the floor, murmuring "Heading for the stairs".

The hall is still deserted, so it only takes her a few seconds to reach the stairs. Thirty seconds later, she's in the basement, picking the lock on the room that should hold the files.

The first sign that she's not alone is two hands, clamping down on her arms. The second is a familiar voice saying, "Well, well, little Natalia."

"Shit", says Clint's voice in her ear.

. . .

He's had a bad feeling all day, an itch between his shoulder blades where his quiver should be. He watches Romanoff flirt with some old dude in a tux and takes a canapé from a passing waiter. She's moving closer to the door, so it won't be long now. The women he's talking to laugh, and he chuckles as well, even though he has no idea what they're talking about.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Nat slip out the door into the hall. He can hear her heels clicking along the marble hallway, then a gasp as she lifts herself into the duct. "In the duct", he hears, followed by the sound of his partner pulling herself through the metal duct. She stops, and he hears her unfastening the access panel, and then a thud as she drops to the floor." He smiles at the women he's talking to as he hears her say "Heading for the stairs".

A door opens and closes, and he hears nothing more than a little rustling as she makes her way to the target. Then he hears a gasp, and a man's voice saying, "Well, well, little Natalia."

"Shit", he says. He makes his excuses to the women he's talking with and moves toward the exit.

. . .

Three minutes later, he's creeping down the stairs wishing he had his bow and arrows. He can hear Nat's voice down the hall as well as echoing through his earpiece. As he hits the bottom step, there's a thud and she abruptly stops talking.

He reaches the end of the hallway and peers through the door. Nat is slumped in the arms of a disturbingly large man. Another man is running his hands over her, clearly checking for weapons. He finds the earpiece and yanks it out, tossing it on the floor and stepping on it before gesturing at his goon to follow him. Clint presses himself against the wall and waits as the two men walk by. They're focused on where they're going, oblivious to the threat he poses, so Nat is the only one who sees him. She grins and goes completely limp, slipping out of the goon's arms and then turning to fight. He sighs and takes on the tuxedoed leader.

It's the kind of fight he hates – too close, too personal – but it's the fight he's got, so he does what he has to do. The big guy hits the floor with a thud, and he throws one more punch at the leader before Nat grabs his hand. They bolt for the stairs and out the back door, racing for the fence that's hidden behind the trees.

They're not quite at the trees when the tuxedoed man starts to shoot. They duck and weave, and then they're over the fence and in their rental car, driving through the streets at a speed that's not quite fast enough to make it worth pulling them over.

"I _knew_ this was going to go bad", he mutters. "I _knew_ it. We never should have gone in there. We should have found another way."

His only answer is a broken sob.

. . .

She knows it's bad. Her side is on fire, it hurts when she breathes, and there's far too much blood seeping past the hand she's got pressed to the wound.

Beside her, Clint is swearing, yelling into his cell phone as the person on the other end tries to tell him where the closest hospital is. They hit the curb as they swerve around the corner, and she sobs from the pain.

"Hang in there, Nat", he says, and she musters all of her strength to reply.

"Not your fault." Her words slur, and she can feel the darkness approaching. "Bad luck. Tell … kids … Laura …"

The car skids to a stop and he's opening her door, pulling her out. "Tell them yourself. I'm not your messenger boy."

And then there are bright lights and loud voices and, finally, blessed darkness.

. . .

He hates this city; hates the architecture and the river, the spas and the cafes. Most of all, he hates the hospital – the fluorescent lights, the antiseptic smell, the terrible coffee, the hushed voices of the medical staff.

It's been hours since Nat was rushed into the back of the hospital. He's grabbed his bag from the car and changed out of his monkey suit. Now he's staring into space, waiting for an update, hoping it'll be a good one.

His eyes focus for a moment, and he sees the goon from the basement at the triage desk. He walks towards the desk and hears the nurse say, "I'm sorry sir, I can't give out any information on our patients."

Clint moves closer and throws his arm around the goon, using his other hand to press a knife to his ribs. "Hey, buddy!" he says, "Thanks for coming." He steers the goon through the emergency room doors and around the corner, where there's a conveniently deserted alcove.

The goon doesn't want to talk, and he doesn't have time to persuade him, so he does what he has to do and leaves the goon lying in a puddle of his own blood. The only thing of interest in his pockets is his cell phone, and Clint pockets it for further investigation. He makes a stop at the car and grabs his bow and arrow, then climbs the bricks to the roof and settles in. The goon's cell phone rings once, then again, and he finally spots the goon's boss stomping impatiently towards the ER. He lets his arrow fly and his victim falls. Before anyone notices the man lying on the ground, he has stashed his weapons in the car and made his way back to the ER.

. . .

Four hours after he carried her through the door, she's out of surgery. Two hours after that, she wakes up.

"Hey", she says.

"Hey", he answers, more calm than he's been in hours. "How do you feel?"

She pauses to take stock. "Sore", she finally answers. "What happened?"

"You decided you wanted a bullet as a souvenir", he answers.

A look of fear washes over her as the events of the night come rushing back. She grabs his arm. "We need to get out of here."

"You can take a day off, Romanoff", he answers.

She shakes her head. "No. The guy in the basement. I knew him, and he knew me. I saw him in the red room. We have to get out of here."

"He's not a problem."

Something in his face must tell the story, because she relaxes back onto the bed. "Knew you'd have my back."

"Anytime, Romanoff", he answers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note:** Thanks for the reviews, they're great motivation.

* * *

He can hear the water running in the bathroom, but his attention is on the bed.

Bed, singular. One bed, two people.

Despite her jokes about joining him in the shower, she can't expect them to sleep in the same bed, right? The house is full of avengers, there are children sleeping upstairs, and he's not entirely sure the other guy would stay under control if they … not that they would … but if they _did_ , it definitely shouldn't be in a house full of people.

It's not safe.

He'd go looking for a couch to sleep on, but Tony's already claimed that, so the floor it is. He picks up a pillow and pulls the top blanket off the bed, and jumps when the bathroom door opens.

"Going somewhere?"

Natasha looks at him with that amused smirk he's seen so often lately. As usual, it leaves him a little tongue-tied. He looks at the pillow and blanket he holds, then back at her. "I thought …"

She sighs. "Get into bed, Bruce. It's been a long day, and who knows what tomorrow brings?"

He sets the pillow down and crawls into bed.

An hour later, he's still wide awake. He's pretty sure she is, too – she's forcing herself to breath evenly, but she's not relaxed enough to actually be asleep.

He turns onto his side and props himself up with his elbow. "Do you come here often?", he asks. The words are out before he realizes how much they sound like a cheesy pick-up line.

"Really?", she laughs, "You're trying to pick me up? You've already got me in bed."

"No." He's flustered now, not sure how to explain. "I mean … you've obviously been here before. The kids love you. Barton's naming the next one _after_ you. I knew you and Barton were close, but I didn't realize you were the only one who knew about his secret life. I didn't even know he _had_ a secret life."

"I come here a few times a year. Holidays, the kids' birthdays if I can, sometimes in the summer", she says. "The way I grew up … I didn't know people actually lived like this. It's nice."

"Yeah", he agrees.

Bruce rolls onto his back, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. "You know", he says, "it's been a long time since I've had someone else in my bed."

"I usually sleep alone, too", Natasha answers.

He stares at her in disbelief. "It's true", she says. "Sex, yes, but not sleeping together. That's too intimate."

"Are you OK with me being here?", he asks.

"You already know most of my secrets. It's fine." She rolls onto her stomach and hugs her pillow. "Go to sleep."

* * *

She's curled up in an alcove, staring out the window. Even though he could have sworn he didn't make a sound, she knows he's there.

"Just do it", she says, her body tensing.

He sits down beside her. "Do what?", he asks.

At his question, she looks at him for the first time. "They sent you to kill me, didn't they?" she asks.

He laughs - what else is he going to do? "Because that worked out so well for them the last time? No, they didn't send me to kill you."

"Oh", she answers, turning her attention back to the window.

"Natasha, _no one_ has been sent to kill you. Hell, after what you did to Daniels, I'm not sure anyone _could_ kill you."

Almost against her will, she laughs. "You heard about that?"

" _Everyone_ heard about that. Man, I wish I'd seen it. 'New recruit almost kills hot-shot instructor in hand-to-hand-combat' If you'd videotaped it, you would be a rich woman right now."

"So if you're not here to kill me, what _are_ you doing here?" she asks.

He shrugs. "I've got an assignment, and I need a partner. You interested?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Note:** Man, I hate present-tense. Why did I start using it? Anyway, this is just a short follow-up to the story we left in chapter 4.

* * *

She stomps down the hall, noticing how many people seem to find other business and abruptly change course to avoid her. He follows, two steps behind.

At the end of the hall, she stops, whirls. "Stop following me."

He shrugs. "You didn't answer my question."

The expression on her face reminds him of the one Coulson gave him when he told him the plan to end the Black Widow didn't go quite as expected. "It's not a real question", she says.

"Seems real to me", he answers. "Want to go on an assignment?"

He notes with amusement the way her face stills as she controls her emotions. She's got to be spitting mad by now.

He, on the other hand, is kind of enjoying this.

"I can't go on a mission", she answers, her voice determinedly level. "I've only been part of S.H.I.E.L.D. for a month. I almost killed an instructor this morning. No one is going to allow me into the field where I might get someone killed."

"I've heard some stuff", he responds, "And I can't help but wonder … why did you almost kill Daniels? Did you lose control? Or, perhaps, are you used to fighting to the death?"

Her gaze moves to the left, not quite meeting his eyes. It's all the answer he needs.

"I like a partner with strong survival instincts", he says. "I've cleared it with Coulson. Pack a bag, Romanoff."


	6. Chapter 6

**Note:** I hate typing S.H.I.E.L.D.

* * *

He sits at the kitchen table, a steaming cup of coffee beside the laptop in front of him. The news sites are still shouting about S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets, the congressional hearing, and the whereabouts of Captain America. To them, it's a story. To him, it's missing friends, the loss of a job, fear for his family.

Nat intentionally hits the creaky board as she walks down the stairs, and he shakes his head fondly. "What time did you get in?"

She pours a cup of coffee and joins him at the table. "Late. Nice security system, by the way."

He grins. "It's new. Top of the line."

She grins back. "It's good. I'm better." She takes a sip of her coffee, sets the cup down. "I checked the files. Nothing about this place." For the first time in days, he feels the tension in his back release just a little.

"Have you heard from anyone else?'

"Yeah." She counts out the names on her fingers. "Rogers is sitting in a nursing home in D.C." He shoots her a puzzled look, and she beams with delight. "Remind me to fill you in later. Stark and Banner are in the lab, trying to pretend the whole thing never happened. Thor's in Asgard. You and I are here. And Fury's in Europe."

"I thought Fury was dead."

"We all did, for a while. Hill helped him fake his death. She's working for Stark Industries now"

"I don't know whether to feel sorry for her or for Stark."

"Both."

He laughs. "Did Cap's advanced age catch up with him? Who's in the nursing home?"

Nat leans forward, her eyes locked on his. "Peggy Carter."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Founder of S.H.I.E.L.D., Peggy Carter?"

She nods. "Founder of S.H.I.E.L.D., former girlfriend of Captain America, Peggy Carter. There was an assassination attempt two days ago. Steve is pretty upset."

"So he's appointed himself her security detail?"

"They're moving her to a more secure location later today. Until then, he's personally providing round-the-clock protection."

"What's he going to do after she's moved?"

"Remember the winter soldier? Russian assassin, shot me when he was trying to take out that engineer?"

The look he sends her shows that he hasn't forgotten.

"Turns out he's actually Bucky Barnes, boyhood friend of Captain America. Sounds like the Russians were trying to build their own super soldiers – ones they could control. He tried to kill Steve, and we think Steve managed to break his programming enough that he remembers something about who he is."

"So Cap's going to wait by his 1945 girlfriend's bed until she's safe, then go looking for his friend who died 70 years ago?"

"Uh huh."

Clint picks up his cup, takes a sip. "Well", he says, "At least I didn't miss much."


	7. Chapter 7

**Note:** I'm supposed to be working on another story. I am not.

* * *

Clint pulls the pillow out from under his head and burrows under it, using it to block the sun that is peering through the crack in the curtains.

Ten seconds later, he's wide awake, trying to figure out what's wrong. It's something to do with the sun, and the silence, and …. He sits upright as beside him, Laura slumbers on. He squints at the alarm clock and is stunned to see it's 9:17. The kids should have woken him up hours ago.

He climbs out of bed and pulls on a pair of jeans, then heads down the stairs to investigate. The house isn't quite as eerily calm downstairs. There's the scent of coffee in the air, and the sound of the TV drifts down the hall, punctuated by childish laughter and the low, husky chuckle of his partner.

He stands in the doorway and takes in the scene. Cooper is sprawled on the floor, three … no, four pillows scattered around him. Nat is curled up under a blanket on the couch, Lila snuggled in close to her and a bowl of Corn Pops in her hand. As he watches, she takes a handful of the cereal and pops it in her mouth.

The roadrunner runs into the tunnel the coyote painted on the rock, and the coyote is flattened when he tries to follow. Nat laughs as Cooper explains that this happens every time, affecting a worldly tone that makes him seem a little more mature than he really should be.

He's growing up so fast. Both of them are, really.

While Nat is distracted, Lila steals a bite of cereal. Nat catches her, and Lila bats her eyelashes and puts on the most angelic expression he's ever seen. Nat pulls her close. "Well done", she says. "I never would suspect you were the evil thief after my cereal". She tickles Lila , and only a quick handoff to Cooper prevents the cereal from spilling.

He leans against the doorway. Nat knows he's there, of course, but the kids haven't noticed him, and it's fascinating to watch the three of them interact.

He'd known Nat needed a family when he brought her here, but he hadn't realized how much his kids needed an adult who spent time with them because she wanted to, not because she had to.

When the laughter has died down, he speaks for the first time. "Dry cereal? Really, Nat?"

She grabs her bowl back from Cooper and looks up at him innocently. "We're not allowed to have milk until an adult is there to pour it."

He nods at the coffee cup sitting on the end table. "I see you didn't need an adult to make coffee."

She shrugs. "There isn't a rule about coffee. Just milk."

He shakes his head is mock disgust. "If you drank the last cup, there's _gonna_ be a rule about coffee."

Leaving them entranced by the cartoon, he goes to get his own cup of coffee.

* * *

Thoughts? Suggestions?


	8. Chapter 8

Set post-Civil War

Laura dried another dish, enjoying the summer breeze through the open kitchen window. It was a beautiful summer evening. The crickets were chirping, the kids were sleeping, and the heat wave had finally broken. If Clint had been home, it would have been perfect.

A floorboard creaked, and she turned to see Nat standing just inside the door. The glass slipped out of her hand and shattered on the kitchen floor.

"Is he …"

She couldn't finished the question. Luckily, Nat knew exactly what she was asking. "He's alive. But he's been arrested, and you've been compromised. I need you to pack clothes for you and the kids. I'm getting you out of here, and I'm not sure when you'll be able to come back, so make sure you have anything important. Don't forget the passports."

"He didn't call. Aren't you allowed to make one phone call from jail?"

Nat laughed harshly. "Not this jail. They plan to bury him and the others so deep they'll never be found. Don't worry about him, Steve's working on getting him out. But we need to get out of here in the next hour. Let's get packing."


End file.
